


Because Of You

by StagnationRebel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:56:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StagnationRebel/pseuds/StagnationRebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another woman leaves John behind, accusing him of not being a bad boyfriend, but of not being her boyfriend. With nothing left to do, John does some searching within his heart. <br/>(This is before Mary, PreSeasonThree- PS, i freaking love Mary! No hate over here)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because Of You

            Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair impatiently as another night passed, another quiet, case-less night. There had to be a murder somewhere. Something had to be happening, or maybe something happened and he hadn’t taken the time to notice.

            The world around him vanished and facts appeared before his eyes. Flipping through them, he tried to uncover some mystery he could run off into the night solving. But the facts flickered out of sight when the front door slamming stole his attention. Tilting his head to listen to the boots stomping up the stairs, Sherlock waited, prepared for action.

             Watson stormed in, fists tight at his side, eyes lost in his mind. A mind palace of his own perhaps? By god, what would that be like? It probably stored useless facts and pent up blogs he wanted to write, but it quickly became obvious that wasn’t what was on Watson’s mind. His body was far too uptight, even for a military man. Sherlock was almost tempted to ask what was wrong, but why waste the breath? Watson wasn’t one to hold anything back.

            “You could say something!” Watson snapped with a deep growl that hit Sherlock. The sound made him shiver.

This was new. Very un-John-like.

            “Why?” Sherlock inquired, curious now about more then what has John pacing. “I knew you’d say something eventually.”

            “It’s how people show they care!” Watson countered, tossing his arms up in the air. “Do you know what that word means?”

            Sherlock leaned back, feeling slapped. Of course he knew what the word meant, he wasn’t an idiot. What was Watson really getting at? He hadn’t done anything wrong; at least, he didn’t think so.

            Watson’s eyes found the door and he paused for a brief moment.

            Heart stopping, Sherlock couldn’t believe Watson was considering leaving. John hadn’t even said what was bothering him. Was he so mad? Sherlock hadn’t tried to offend him; then again, he never tried. It just happened.

            “This was a bad idea,” Watson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He let out his breath, deflating in both air and purpose. “I’m just going to go.”

            “John, wait,” Sherlock called quickly, pleading, as he stood from his chair. He hesitated, John’s name feeling strangely intimate on his tongue.

            For a moment, Watson didn’t move, chest stuck without inhale or exhale, and Sherlock was tempted to go to him, reach out and touch him. People seemed to find comfort in touch, he knew, but didn’t understand why. But the longer Sherlock left his words hanging in the dead space between them, Sherlock was beginning to feel shut out, unwanted.

            “Please,” Sherlock choked out, barley managing to continue. “Please, don’t go. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

            For the first time, Watson looked at Sherlock. A mixture of emotions swam around in his gaze, emotions Sherlock desperately tried to analyze. Anticipation, anxiety, desperation, hope. There was something else, something Sherlock didn’t recognize. It was familiar, like he’d seen something similar before.

            “She left me,” Watson finally confided, his voice much like stone. Sherlock noticed that Watson was doing to him what he often did to Watson. Observing his reaction and what a sight it must’ve been.

            True shock fell over Sherlock. There was no reason for her to leave him, this time. In the past, Watson- according to women- had not done certain things like remembering birthdays and that pointless, unimportant information. But this time, this time, Watson had done everything right. He remembered birthdays and kept dates. He knew the names of her friends, family, even the pets. Phone calls were made and answered, little gifts and compliments were given, time was spent. Watson had listened well to the women in the past, becoming what every woman desired. He was perfect. In so many ways.

            “Why?” Sherlock finally voiced when no reason for the couple’s split came to mind.

            In the silence that fell around them, that simple syllable registered with Watson and he visibly slumped as though disappointed. Had Sherlock missed something? Was there even a point to be missed that wasn’t obvious? If there was, Sherlock wanted to figure it out and quick. He didn’t like missing the point. Especially when it came to John.

            So, what else could there be? John’s family had no problem with her and she had no problem with them. John’s ‘friends’ didn’t care and Mrs. Hudson adored her.

            Then it hit him.

            Watson had been avoiding eye contact, even saying his name. This entire time, he remained across the room and that space between them seemed to grow.

            “Was it something I did?” Sherlock concluded, his heart dropping into his stomach. As he said it, his body grew heavy. Never before had a simple sentence caused such an immense exhaustion.

            With a quiver in his voice, John asked, “What makes you say that?” as his eyes fell to the floor, only to confirm Sherlock’s fear.

            Watson blamed him. Sherlock was at fault.

            Crushed, Sherlock did what he normally loved doing most for Watson. Explaining why he was right.

            “Well,” he began with great effort, voice barely higher then a whisper, “from the moment you walked in, you’ve kept yourself away from me. You haven’t even sat down. Then you snapped at me for just _being_ me. You’ve known me for a long time, John, you know I don’t ever ask how people are doing.”

            John’s lips twitched for a brief moment into what looked like a smile. But it vanished quickly and Sherlock wanted nothing more then to see it again, like a ray of light after months spent in darkness. Like a greatly planned murder case after months of idiots and their ridiculous plots.

            “And you’ve barely glanced my way,” Sherlock added, having never gone slower with an explanation. He knew it was like a Band-Aid, that it would’ve been better to just tear it off, but he feared that too much force would tear the wound right open again.

            “It’s not your fault,” Watson assured. “It’s mine. I’m-” he let escape a soft chuckle, “I’m an idiot.”

            “Tell me something I don’t already know,” Sherlock automatically let slip, instantly regretting it. But before John could say anything, he quickly added, “It’s obvious in the way you think you can lie to me and get away with it. I know it wasn’t you. How could you have done anything wrong?” Sherlock began to put one foot in front of the other, again, and then again; until Watson looked up and his face read ‘close enough’. “John, you’ve done so much right. You’re perfect... it has to be something I did. I know I’ve done it before- not that it was entirely on purpose.”

            Sherlock stopped, hesitating. He was running away with words, getting carried away. That only ever really seemed to happen when they were together.

            “Is there anything I can do to fix it?” Sherlock asked, pulling himself together and getting back on track.

            Almost like a twitch, Watson’s hand balled up into a fist and slammed his eyes shut. He was hiding, Sherlock realized, but from what?

            “She thinks I’m in love with you, Sherlock,” Watson blurted, saying Sherlock’s name for the fist time since he walked in.

            For a long time now, people have assumed that. Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, strangers. Once, more than once even, Sherlock thought it too. Even brought it up before. But every time, Watson denied with is head held high. No real anger ever behind his voice. So what made this time so different? Was he just sick of people assuming he was gay? Or was it the truth finally coming to light?

            “Well, are you?” Sherlock asked, not wanting to come to the wrong conclusion this time.

            Watson found Sherlock’s eyes and held his gaze, fist unclenching. His hands perfectly steady.

            “You stuff the microwave with eyes, cram decapitated heads in the fridge,” Watson pointed out, stepping forwards towards Sherlock. “You shoot walls and become a crabby little child when you’re bored. You’re incredibly lazy! Insanely messy! And you think you’re better then everyone else!”

            Watson stopped just in front of Sherlock, looking up at him, his gaze still strong. Sherlock had to look down since Watson was shorter and found himself holding his breath.

            “You frustrate the life out of me, Sherlock, and you can be incredibly selfish,” John continued. “You drive me mad.”

            “Do I really drive you that insane?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head, studying Watson.

            “Of course!” Watson hollered as if it should’ve been obvious.

            “But you put up with me?” Sherlock questioned, trying to figure out this puzzle before him. The puzzle that made Watson so different from everyone else. An edge that drew Sherlock in like a moth to a flame. A flame that was so predictable in its habits of heat and burning, but so unpredictable in shape and size. So beautiful and tempting.

            “Far too often,” John grumbled.

            “Because you love me?”

            It sounded more like a statement then it did a question. He sounded like he did when he solved a case and all he was waiting for was the confession. The final, official, concrete piece of evidence.

            Watson’s own reaction was much the same, as if he too were on the case. It was the moment when Sherlock decided to ask him to join in on something that could only be considered stupid and dangerous. The dare that Sherlock always presented him with. The challenge he always answered to.

            “Oh god yes,” Watson finally caved, the way he always did when it came to Sherlock.

            That, right there, was the only answer Sherlock ever wanted, and with the answer out in the open, a result needed to come forth. The first result Sherlock ever cared about.

            He grabbed Watson and pulled him tight against his body, connecting their lips. Desperate and full of longing, the touch opened the floodgates. Emotions Sherlock never realized he harbored broke free as he cupped John’s face in his hands. Sherlock was not alone. He could feel it both emotionally and physically as his thumb grazed Watson’s cheek.

            Damp warmth ran over Sherlock’s fingers and he knew they were tears. Tears because John Hamish Watson _had_ been holding back. For so long, they’ve lied to each other, but now, nothing was hidden. The truth spilled free.

            Moving his hand to cradle the back of John’s head, to deepen what wasn’t deep enough, Sherlock could feel minor traces of product coating his slim fingers. Mid-kiss, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. Watson had made sure to fix himself up before arriving.

            With that brief smile, came a minor distance in their lips. As if he was afraid to lose Sherlock, afraid this was all just a dream, John eagerly grasped at Sherlock’s jacket like it was the rope to survival and quickly pulled himself up to meet Sherlock’s lips again.

            Their skin burned with the passion that beat through their hearts. Watson’s frustration gave away to ecstasy and Sherlock finally knew what love could _really_ do.

            Yes, love could very well be his destruction, Watson’s too, but love could do so much more then that. Love could build someone, make them stronger, change them for the better. And it did. Loving John Watson made Sherlock a better man. It made him stronger, wiser even.

            Sherlock had never been any happier to have been proven wrong about love.

 

            Well, technically, proven half wrong.


End file.
